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AT LEXINGTON 



A MEMORIAL POEM 



BY 



BENJAMIN SLEDD 






Published and Copyrighted, August, 1913 



MUTUAL 
VI/PUBLISHINQ >!/ 

ay ooMPAHY ib 

ISi RALEIQH lii 



[This poem is selected from Mr. Sledd's forthcoming volume 
"Old South Idylls"] 



Iii E.KCliange 
Univ. of North Carolina 
SEP 2 7 1M3 



TO 



CLARENCE POE 

CRITIC, FRIEND 



WHO IS HIMSELF DOING MUCH TO BRING ABOUT THAT FINAL 

TRIUMPH OF THE SOUTH SO CONFIDENTLY FORETOLD 

AT THE CLOSE OF THIS POEM 



NOTE 



It was at the close of the seventies in Virginia that I 
gave up the struggle with sassafras bushes and crabgrass, 
worn-out soils and hopeless negro labor; sold a big slice 
of my world of useless land for the princely sum of 
three hundred dollars ; and one fine September morning, 
with books and clothing packed in a pair of saddlebags, 
rode away on old Frank (nomen carum et venerabile!) 
across the counties to the Washington and Lee University. 

At that time, with the James River Canal abandoned 
and the railroad still in the making, — there was only the 
highway from the north and from the south to bring stu- 
dents and cadets into Lexington. As I approached the 
town, therefore, I found the road full of pilgrims, bound 
for the University or for the Military Institute, — wealthy 
boys from the far south, whirling past behind gaily 
decorated teams ; farmer lads with their fathers jogging 
along in rusty buggies ; but old Frank and I had the prize 
until we overtook a sturdy fellow who had walked from 
southwest Virginia and was now trudging along bare- 
footed, with his only pair of shoes slung over his 
shoulders. Of many such was the kingdom of learning 
in those days. 

My first hours in Lexington were spent largely at 
the grave of Jackson and the tomb of Lee. Mine had 
been indeed not a journey but a pilgrimage. 

B. S. 



AT LEXINGTON 



All day a pilgrim had I gone 

Across Virginia's storied land, 

The lure of " Lexington ! " 

Leading me ever on. 

What though the land in ruins lay ? 

The autumn fields cropless and gray ?— 

From far and near that day 

Undaunted mid defeat and shame, 

The South's young manhood came, 

No more at war's, but duty's proud command. 

But night was now at hand. 

And weary, travel-stained I stood 

And from a hilltop's fringe of wood 

On straggling spires and homes looked down. 

And could it be, this little town, 

The goal of life's dream-years ? 

Almost it moved to bitter tears 

Such close should be to youth's glad quest. 

And still I lingered by the way. 

While fancy yearned to make the best 

Of all that eye could see : 

Close round the guardian mountains pressed ; 

Northward, the river darkling flowed ; 

And near, in cloistral quiet, showed 

Those dreamed-of pillared walls, aglow 

With the last light of day ; 

And there below. 

Shadowed by many a tree, 

The tomb of Lee. 



O river, hills, and town, — that name 
Has crowned you with a crown of flame ! 

To doubt and linger more what need ? 

Now to your longings give all speed, 

O pilgrim. Yet 'twere meet 

To go with naked feet. 

For sacred is the ground you tread. 

Around you are the mighty dead ; 

And where yon clustering marble gleams 

Faint in the rising moon's first beams, 

Great Stonewall sleeps his victor sleep. 

But wander past and let him keep 

His glory still a while unsung. 

Blest was he that he died so young, — 

So young the cause he glorified. 

What if defeat had tried 

That stern sad soul's unyielding pride ? — 

Victor he lived, victor he died. 

Some day, O Muses, hither bring 

Poet worthy his deeds to sing. 

Yet victory 

Alone makes not the great ; 

But victor over fate 

Itself was Lee, 

Who made defeat his perfect fame. 

And taught us what the great may be. 

Oh, holy are this hill and wood. 

For here perhaps it was he stood. 

When on that August day he came. 

And gazed with kingly eyes upon 

His little realm of Lexington. 



And he whose hand had hurled 
The thunderbolt and all but riven 
The land in twain and given 
Another nation to the world — 
Put on the scholar's cap and gown : 
Not worn as martyr's robe and crown 
But with a high humility 
Which taught us what the great can be. 

But hasten down ; and leave the throng 
To their own boyish ways, of song 
And laughter. What have you, 
O pilgrim, yet with these to do ! 
Still is your pilgrimage undone. 
Each roving band of comrades shun ; 
Down the dim street untended make, 
Till from its lordly hilltop, bright 
As a vision in the moon's full light, 
The wide old pillared front shall break 
Right on your startled gaze : 
At last! At last! 
Oh, not in vain 

The yearnings of those unblest days 
Forever now behind you cast ! 
For to a boy's untutored dreams 
As grand the humble vision seems 
As when of old a festal train 
From far off isle amid the main, 
Landing at holy Marathon, 
Over Pentelicus all day have gone. 
At sunset gain 

Hymettus and the Attic plain. 
And silently look down upon 
The Parthenon ! The Parthenon ! 



Oh, not in vain 

The waiting of those patient days, 
When from the jeering world apart, 
Wandering in lonely ways, 
You nursed the promise in your heart ! 
Deep in untroubled haunts of pine, 
On fragrant needles stretched supine, 
Reading the tales all but divine 
As that divinest tale of long ago 
Of Hector's might and Ilion's woe, — 
Time's latest page of chivalry : 
Grim Stonewall and his Ironsides, 
Pickett's charge, and Stuart's rides, 
And everywhere the soul of Lee. 

But linger not, for nigh at hand 
Moonlit and ivy-mantled stand 
The chapel walls, and on the floor. 
From oriel windows silvered o'er 
With moonlight's unstained glory, see 
The tomb of Lee. 

Your pilgrimage at last is done : 
The goal of life's dream-years is won ! 

Is it enough, enough, to stand 
With duly folded hand 
And reverent-bended head ! 
Kneel down and to the marble lay 
Your lips and humbly pay 
Meet reverence to the dead. 



Good is it to be here. 

O pilgrim, what have you to fear? 

Though slowly hence the moonbeams glide 

And all grows dark, and at your side 

An awful presence stands. 

Fear not, but mutely lift 

Your suppliant hands 

And beg the longed-for gift :— 

Some day to come and lay 

Tribute of deathless song — 

Voiced alike by friends and foes — 

Upon his tomb and somewhat pay 

The debt a nation owes. — 

(Oh, Chieftain, it was long, 

So long ago, the gift I prayed, 

And daily have my lips essayed 

To keep the vow which then they made ; 

But toil and time work grievous wrong, 

Stealing away the poet fire 

And leaving but unquenched desire. 

My chieftain, on your tomb today 

Tribute of song I lay : 

Not what I would but what I may.) 

But now a waking bird has cried 

" The dawn ! the dawn ! " O pilgrim, rise 

And hasten forth and take your place 

Your toiling brother-man beside, 

A new day's radiance on your face, 

A new day's promise in your eyes. 



And leave your Chieftain to his sleep : 

His very name 

Time's self will keep 

In sacred trust. 
Out of war's ruin, wrong, and shame, — 

Just or unjust, — 
The work of peace that here he wrought, 
The patient, far-off ends he sought, 
His ever-brightening star of fame. 
In the long years to be, — 
Our stern, high task before us set, 
Our hands in love and duty met, — 
Will lead his people yet 

To victory. 





015 988 882 



